


An Itch You Can't Scratch

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Wing Kink, Wings, needy crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 09:16:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19742680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Crowley's wings itch.





	An Itch You Can't Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Eh, crack mostly. Enjoy!

Crowley was fidgeting again.

It wasn't unusual; Aziraphale was quite used to ignoring the demon as he shifted around in his seat, particularly when they were at the theatre. It wasn't that the demon couldn't sit still; it was more that if he did, he had a tendency to fall asleep.

Besides, anyone could fall asleep during a pre-school Nativity play; Aziraphale was struggling to keep his eyes open himself as little Aggie Pulsifer and her friends droned their way through a dutiful, but tuneless, rendition of _Away In A Manger_.

"Angel," Crowley mumbled, leaning in close so that even Newt - sat on his other side, keeping his hands well away from Anathema's phone as she recorded the show - couldn't hear, "my wings itch."

"They're not even on the same plane of existence, dear."

"I _know_." Crowley twitched, trying to get comfortable. "If they were, it wouldn't be so irritating."

"Soldier on, my brave demon," Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley turned back to what had to be one of the longest Nativities ever. "Oh, look, angels. How lovely."

After the show - during which Crowley had spectacularly failed to stay still - they were mingling with the children's parents when the demon grabbed his arm.

"Angel. I need to scratch this wing."

"We can leave soon, Crowley- oh." _Soon_ had ceased to be a meaningful concept. "Crowley! You can't just stop time whenever you feel-" But his protests fell on deaf ears as Crowley dragged him into an empty corridor.

"I had to! I can hardly do _this-_ " His wings materialised, spanning the length of the hallway and brushing the tiles of the ceiling. "-with everyone looking." Then he crooked an arm awkwardly behind himself and began to scratch frantically. "Oh, come on, really?"

Crowley had retained many snake-like aspects from his time in the Garden, including an enviable degree of flexibility, but even he had a spot, just at the base of where his wings met his back, that he could not reach. Aziraphale watched him struggle for less than a minute before taking pity on him.

"Oh, for- come here." He made a show of letting out an exasperated sigh, but in truth he loved touching Crowley's wings. Before he had, he had assumed that demon wings were scorched, crispy things, but in fact Crowley's wings differed from his own only in colour. They were soft beyond reason, and warm as if still burning from the Fall, and as Aziraphale pressed his fingers to the itchy spot they shivered like Crowley's unfortunate houseplants.

"Oh, yes, angel. Right there. Sa- G- _Somebody_ , that's good." He all but collapsed against the nearest wall, letting Aziraphale work his fingers all around the itch - and then, feeling wicked, the angel began to tease at other feathers, rubbing at the skin underneath and causing Crowley to writhe like the serpent he was. "Oh, no, not fair- not-" He surrendered to a groan of pleasure, dropping to his knees as his legs buckled, and Aziraphale showed him no mercy.

"Angel, please-" The demon turned his head towards him, sunglasses askew, yellow eyes begging for relief, for respite… for more.

"Home," Aziraphale declared abruptly, "they'll understand we had to slip away." Crowley got shakily to his feet, folding his wings back into the ether.

"Slip away- Is something wrong?"

"We can't be in public if you're going to go to pieces so beautifully," Aziraphale told him sternly, "time or no time. And I want time to savour you."

"I'm not a crêpe, angel."

"You are deliciousss," He knew no other way to be tempting; temptation, to Aziraphale, was Crowley, and Crowley was a snake. "I want to take my time."

"Oh. _Oh._ " Crowley's face cleared of confusion, his eyes darkening with desire. "Right, then. I'll start the car."

"I'll start time."

Ten minutes later, they were home - an impressive feat, considering the distance - and as Aziraphale pressed gentle kisses to the tender undersides of his demon's wings, Crowley trembled like a houseplant once more.


End file.
